cherry bombe

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Being a mom is hard work.
There are days when you want to hand in your resignation. Or, at the very least, renegotiate your contract. But you don't. You hang in there. You wring your hands. You fret. You worry. You hope. You make wishes.
 
But then there are days of such luminous rapture that you think your heart will burst out of your chest. And in between there are moments of quiet joy. Smiles. Laughter. Hugs. Flowers and cake.

Give your mom a hug today. If that's not possible, give someone else's mom a hug. Tell her that she's doing/done a good job. Bring her smiles and laughter. Flowers and cake are good, too.
We all need a little appreciation.

Cherrybombe 

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Download recipe:   Cherry bombe

 
 

gingerbread goat cheese ham

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 The birth of this dish started around the holidays, when I picked up the mingled scent of gingerbread and baked ham and thought that they made sense together. After all, we stud ham with cloves and glaze them with brown sugar— not such a big leap to gingerbread.

My first inclination was to go basic: bake a loaf of ginger bread and make a ham and cheese sandwich. Maybe grilled or toasted a la Croque-monsieur. But then citrus season got in the way and it was forgotten.

The idea popped up again when my son, who has a penchant for spice cookies, requested gingersnaps. I happened to have on hand some petit billy, a soft, tangy goat cheese from the town of Billy in the Loire Valley*. I also had reserved a nub of Pop's magic ham, not enough to slice, but just enough to microplane into a soft heap of ham filings. Together, these flavors were a fantastic combination— sweet spice, milky tang, savory smoke— and inspired a different kind of sandwich that befit the season; an ice cream sandwich.

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For the ice cream, I took my base recipe and swapped out the petit billy for some of the heavy cream and cut the sugar by half. I tweaked my gingerbread cookies to render them softer and toned down the spices. The whipped rhubarb (rhubarb syrup whipped with 2% versawhip) was added for color, texture, and fruity acidity.

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soft gingerbread cookies
makes about 4 dozen 3" cookies

1/2 cup (113g) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup (200g) sugar
1 egg
1/4 cup (72g) molasses
1/4 cup (72g) honey
1/2 cup (115g) heavy cream, whipped 
3 cups (375g) flour
1 1/2 tsp (7g) baking soda
1 tsp (2g) cinnamon
1 tsp (2g) ground ginger
1 tsp (2g) ground cloves
1 Tblsp (7g) grated fresh gingerroot

In a mixer bowl, cream the butter with the sugar until pale and creamy. Add the egg and beat until incorporated. On low speed, beat in the molasses and the honey, followed by the whipped cream. In another bowl, combine the remaining ingredients until well blended. Add half to the butter mixture, beating well until incorporated. Repeat with remainder of dry ingredients. 
Chill cookie dough until it stiffens, about 1 hour.
Preheat oven to 375F/190C. Roll out dough 1/4" thick on floured surface. Cut into desired shapes. Transfer to parchment-lined baking sheets.
Bake cookies for 6-10 minutes, depending on size, or until edges darken and crisp, but centers remain soft.

*I love the word-play of a goat cheese made in a town named Billy, and sandy cookies in Sablé-sur-Sarthe, both in the Loire Valley. Oh, those ironic French.

earthy potatoes and magic ham

After two years, this blog still challenges me to poke and prod and go places I haven't been before. It reminds me that despite what I think I already know, the only thing I really know is that there is always more to know.
  
I'm grateful for that.
I wouldn't want it any other way.
 
I'm also grateful to those of you that take time out of your busy, busy lives to drop me a line. To ask questions. To say hi. To send encouragement. To take me to task.  And sometimes, after I respond, you respond back. And so on. And the next thing I know, I have a new friend.
 
I'm grateful for that, too.
 
Sometimes, my new friends send me things. Special things. The kind of things you can't buy in a store. Or anywhere else for that matter.
Sometimes, they send me inspiration. Or boxes of sunshine. They even send me magic.

And just in case there was any doubt, it was clearly labeled  POP'S MAGIC HAM.

Uwe's pop is a magician. On his farm in Texas he transforms pork loin into something not of this world. Uwe and Chad describe the magic far better than I could. I can tell you, though, that with a smoke whisperer for a father, Uwe has a lot to be grateful for. 
And so do I.

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If you've ever received food that promises magic, you'll know that the first thing you want to do is eat it. And if it's good, you'll want to eat it all. That's part of the magic. 

And if you, like me, showed heroic restraint and stopped yourself short so someone else can enjoy it too, then you know that magic is meant to be shared.

Some time later, you may find yourself with a few handfuls of tiny fingerling potatoes that are intended to share a plate with the magic ham. And you wait patiently to roast them because your oven is currently full of dirt (after all, it's early spring and you need sterile soil to start your seedlings). And as you wait, your nostrils fill will the smell of roasted earth, and you look at the potatoes and slap yourself upside the head (gently, of course) and think DUH. And you grab a trowel and head for the garden and fill a casserole dish with damp earth. 

Back in the kitchen you bury the potatoes in the earth and it just feels right. You put them in the oven and set a timer. You hope against hope that they turn out tender and fragrant, but they don't. You look with despair at the shriveled hard pucks and realize that they are victims of the hygroscopic properties of silica. You try again with a fresh batch of potatoes, this time soaking the soil thoroughly, and you smile, remembering how you used to make mud pies as a child and you realize that you've come full circle.

They turn out perfect: soft, tender, earthy by design. You give them a quick rinse in hot water, sad that you had to do so because you like the way they looked with bits of soil clinging to them. Then you remember the crispy cream and crumble some over the hot potatoes with a pinch of salt and a grind of pepper. You toss them and watch the bits of toasted milk solids soften and melt, coating the potatoes with butterfat and you are satisfied.

Earthpotatoes
 

You arrange the potatoes on a plate and shower them with ultra thin slices of the magic ham (because it came with clear instructions: SLICE ULTRA THIN). You taste and think that the flavors of earth and smoke need something to bounce off of. Something fresh. Something green. You scan the herbs that you have growing on a windowsill and under lights. Thyme (nah)… mexican oregano (maybe)… nutmeg geranium (could be interesting)… oxalis (probably not)… ram rau (definitely not)… tahoon (bingo!). You taste the tahoon, just to be sure. Green. Herbaceous. Sun-warmed earth. Oily beechnuts. Perfect. You pick a handful of leaves and whirl them in a blender with olive oil and a pinch of ground sumac, working quickly before the potatoes cool. 

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You eat the earthy potatoes and magic ham and come to a sudden realization. It is this:
In your entire life, you've cooked with fire. Sometimes with water. Sometimes with air. And now you can add earth to the list.

Somehow, that makes you feel complete.

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.

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 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.

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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.

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

artichoke bergamot green garlic

Artichoke

 

 I'm a big fan of artichokes that are carefully trimmed and presented whole. Piercing the dense flesh with a fork, and then a knife, is a sensation akin to carving a steak.

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Revisiting citrus gama (cooking in an aromatic vessel).
Here, the aroma is infused in reverse— from filling to vessel— with bergamot lemon zest in the savory custard.
The aroma is reinforced with a few strips of zest in the steaming water and the finished artichoke is dressed with the juice.
The brightness of the green garlic olive oil puree cuts through the richness of the custard and the maillardized crispy cream.
 

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Hmm… kinda looks like a ranunculus, no? 

artichoke pizette

After working through piles of tough scales, we arrive at the tender heart of the matter.

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Continuing with the artichoke-as-flower theme, rosettes of thinly sliced artichoke hearts were arranged on top of crisp olive oil-enriched dough. I've used a mayonnaise based sauce, knowing full well that it wouldn't be heat stable— unless, of course, it was held together with copious amounts of cheese.
The sauce— which is really a garlic, parmesan, and thyme flavored mayo— also makes a fantastic garlic bread when slathered on thick slices of baguette and glazed under the broiler.

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Download recipe:   artichoke pizette

  

artichoke flower

Artichokes make me wonder about the human spirit and its unbound curiosity. I mean— who was the first person to look at the hostile thistle with its sharp thorns and leathery scales and think “hmmm… that might be good to eat“?
Most likely, that person was from North Africa, where the wild thistle is thought to have originated. While I’ll never know his/her identity, I am grateful to them and the legions of people who have cultivated it since.

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The Globe artichoke (Cynara carunculus) is, in fact, a flower bud that is harvested before blooming. The immature flower is the mass of inedible fibers, known as the choke, found in the center of the bud. The edible part— the heart— is the thickened, fleshy receptacle located at the base. 
To get to the meaty heart, the scales must be removed, the choke scraped out, and the fibrous exterior peeled away. This process leaves a pile of fractal scales that are often needlessly discarded. The inner pale scales are delicately-flavored and tender as flower petals when the purple papery tips are trimmed away. The dark outer scales are too tough and fibrous to eat, but they retain a nugget of the heart at their base which is delicious and fun to eat when dipped into a sauce and scraped out between the teeth.

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Layering the scales with a sauce in a bowl is one way to present them. While the intention of this dish was to save them from the bin, it was directly inspired by the artichoke’s form and true nature as a flower. Amusingly, the restructured scales, or flattened artichoke, comes off looking like a water lily or lotus flower— yet another testament to the recurring designs found in nature which are never arbitrary or isolated.

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Artichokes and eggs are a great marriage, especially when piqued with acid. Sweetened with black garlic and crowned with sieved egg yolks, a classic sauce gribiche fits the bill nicely.

black garlic sauce gribiche

Hard boil 3 eggs. Peel and cool the eggs, then separate the yolks from the whites. Pass the yolks and the whites through a sieve separately into 2 bowls. Add 1 raw egg yolk to the bowl with the cooked yolks along with 1 Tblsp (16g) of Dijon mustard, 1 Tblsp (14g) of white wine vinegar, 1 tsp (5g) of salt, and pepper to taste. Whisk well until mixture becomes a smooth paste. In a slow, thin stream, add 1 cup (190g) of safflower oil, whisking constantly, until mixture thickens and mayonnaise is formed. Whisk in 1 Tblsp (16g) of black garlic puree (peeled black garlic cloves pureed with a little hot water into a smooth paste). Stir in 2 Tblsp(30g) chopped capers, 2 Tblsp (30g) chopped sour pickles, 2 Tblsp (20g) chopped fines herbes (fresh parsley, chervil, chives, and tarragon), and the sieved egg whites. Adjust seasoning.

  

crispy cream

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Heating heavy cream in a pressure cooker produced some interesting results— most notably this airy, crisp texture which bears a remarkable similarity to aerated chocolate in appearance, flavor and texture.

Notes: 

  • accelerated heat from pressure cooking causes fat to separate from solids 
  • solids brown and form matrix around bubbling fat
  • fragile when hot  
  • pliable while warm
  • hardens upon cooling

appearance: spongy, light to dark brown

texture:  crisp , dry but perceived moist from retained fat, melting

flavor: deep, toasty, nutty, chocolate, roasted coffee, beurre noisette