Indian Summer :: the forest :: mushroom pine

Woodland Indians were a group of numerous tribes that inhabited the forests along the eastern United States and Canada. They were skilled hunters and foragers who connected to their Creator through nature, believing that plants, animals, stones, and stars possessed spirits to guide them in their journey through life. The forests were not only a place to live, hunt and forage— they were cathedrals.

Indigenous people lived in balance with the earth— they took only what was necessary and wasted nothing. When a pine tree was harvested, the needles were used as incense and in rain ceremonies, thin twigs were woven into baskets, and sturdier branches were fashioned into tools and weapons. Bark was used to cover wigwams, line food storage pits, and boiled to make a variety of medicines. The cambium was pounded, boiled, and eaten as food. Resin was chewed for pleasure— a primitive form of chewing gum. Pine cones and nuts were pulverized into fine powder, mixed with animal fat and marrow, and eaten as a confection. Pine pitch was an all-purpose substance, used for making cosmetics, medicine, glue, and water-proofing. Roots were peeled into fibers, used as cordage and thread for sewing. What remained was used for building or firewood.

Mushrooms and fungi were gathered after rains for food, medicine, religious ceremonies, and for poisoning enemies. Oyster (Pleurotis osteatus), chicken-of-the-woods (Laetiporus sulphureus), and sulphur shelf (Polyporus sulphureus), were (and still are) sought-after varieties that grow on deciduous trees. Morels (Morchella esculenta), giant puffballs (Calvatia gigantea), and chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius) grow directly out of the earth, in and around forests. These were often eaten raw, baked in clay ovens, shredded and added to soups and stews, or dried for winter use.

Mosses are fascinating and beautiful non-vascular plants that carpet the floors of dense forests. Because of their absorbing and analgesic properties, Indians used them as diapers and wound dressings. Though they are not toxic or harmful to eat, they are not very good (I've tried). It's possible that they were ingested as medicine— so much of this information is lost to us. What is known for certain is that primitive cultures had a heightened awareness and intimate knowledge of plants and their properties because of their connection to the earth.

Moss on Mushroom

chanterelle pine pesto

Indian Summer

We had our first frost earlier in the month. It was a tentative one at best, gone by midmorning and taking with it only the tenderest vegetation. The remainder of the month has been unseasonably warm— some days hot and perceptibly hazy, as if the charged atmosphere, in its hurried march towards winter, stalled in the heat and vibrated in idleness.

In the USA, wherever there is a true winter, this period is called Indian Summer.

Indian Summer usually occurs after the onset of cold, when the weather double-backs upon itself. The provenance of the phrase dates back to the 18th century and refers to the American Indians, who used this period to harvest and hunt in preparation for winter.

On a daily basis, I travel roads that have been designated 'scenic routes', passing landscapes that remain largely unscathed by the hands of man. In this setting of fields, woods, lakes and forests, it's easy to imagine the indigenous way of life that was tethered to nature and governed by the elements. In November, when the riotous autumnal landscape turns stark with the impending severity of winter, the challenges become more evident; the struggles more acute. The austerity captures my imagination.

In Indian Summer, with the evocative scenery and Thanksgiving on the horizon, it's no wonder that November— more than any other month— has me contemplating the influence of the Native Americans.

At no other time is their influence more evident than on our Thanksgiving table. Turkey, oysters, cranberries, pumpkin, squash, sweet potatoes, beans, maple syrup, nuts, and berries are all indigenous foods that were quickly adopted by the European settlers, often saving them from starvation. And, of course, there was corn— the staple of the Native American diet, referred to in some native languages as "mother" or "life"— a benevolent sustaining force and once sacred crop that agribusiness has exploited into the monster that it is today.

Some time ago, I researched the Native American diet for a project. While I found it historically interesting, I admit to being uninspired by the limitations of food and cooking methods. I realize that this was because my cooking relied heavily on the abundance of food and ingredients from around the globe that was readily available to me. Recently, I was given the opportunity to cater an event at The Institute for American Indian Studies in Washington, CT, which was to focus on food that is native to North America. As I delved into it, I was surprised by how liberating it was to be given such tight parameters. The event, itself, was magical— listening to Native Americans tell stories and speak with pride about the past, present,and future, surrounded by fascinating exhibits and artifacts, learning first-hand about the customs and traditions that made up a lost way of life. There, I found the inspiration that I was after.

I'm putting together a series of dishes— a virtual tasting menu, if you will— that will occupy the next several posts. My intention is to temporarily step back from the complexities of modern cooking in order to explore the simplicity of primal food and native ingredients and to celebrate the beauty of the natural resources that surround me. I can't promise to completely exclude modern techniques, but by visiting another extreme, I hope to find a balance that makes sense and appeals to the way that we cook and eat today.

autumn pudding

from behind cascading leaves
the sun emerges like a sleepy child

heavy eyelids
blink
fractals of gilded light
a gentle yawn
exhale
a universe of scent
both familiar and exotic

leaves drift
fall
rustle a lullaby

I bid it sweet dreams
and eat my way across the autumn sky

parsnip vanilla pudding
butternut squash, autumnberry, kaffir lime gelee
candied pumpkin

Download recipe: Autumn pudding

autumnberry

I equate the back half of my property to the side of a mountain. I'm probably being overly dramatic but it does feel that way when I climb it. When I brought my father up there, he said it would make a fine vineyard. He was right— it had good drainage and a southwestern exposure, but I had different kinds of fruit in mind: cherries, pears, apples, plums… I wanted to plant a mountain orchard.

The second spring after we moved in, my husband and I cleared an area on the lower rise. We took down a few mature trees, numerous saplings, and a ton of unidentified shrubs that dominated the understory. They were attractive as far as wild shrubs go— long arching branches, silvery leaves, and insignificant yellow flowers that perfumed the mountain with their sweet scent. I would have hesitated to cut them down, but honestly, they were everywhere.

That spring, I planted six semi-dwarf fruit trees with the intentions of planting six more the following year. It was too far from the house to bring in water, but I managed to get a large tub up to gather rainwater for dry spells. That first year, I checked on the trees frequently, though there was little to do except to adjust their supports and weed around their base. By midsummer, the stumps of the shrubs that had been cut to the ground were sending out multiple shoots that began to encroach on the trees. It seemed that the more severely they were cut, the more vigorous they became. They were tenacious— I gave them that— but so was I. That first year I was confident that I had them under control [insert Nature's mocking laugh].

It was August of the following year when I finally made my way back up to the orchard. Plans to plant more trees were thwarted; other things took priority. In the wild overgrowth that ensued in my neglect, I had to look hard to find the fruit trees. Half of them were dead and the remaining three didn't look so good. I suppose that I should have felt defeated, but I had more invested in the orchard than the hours of labor and cost of the trees— I was chasing a dream of my own private Eden; trying to fulfill a plan that would bring me closer to the land and further from the grid. Stubbornly, I resolved to reclaim the orchard and waged a quiet, but violent war with pruning saw and shears.

I went back to work full-time the following year. In the restaurant biz, that means 14-16 hour days, leaving little free time for gardening. I didn't make it back to the orchard until late in the season, then I wished I hadn't. It's never easy to admit defeat. Or to let go of dreams.

I let a few years pass before I ventured back up the mountain. With the fruit trees dead, there didn't seem much point— until last month, when I found a reason to return.

You see, I finally identified the tenacious shrubs. It turns out that my nemesis and the squasher of my mountain orchard dream is the Autumn Olive (Elaeagnus umbellata)— a close relative of Russian Olive, a native of Asia (Aki-gumi) and cultivated by the Europeans who introduced it to North America. Originally intended as an ornamental, its tolerance of a wide range of environmental conditions and nitrogen-fixing root nodules that allows it to thrive in poor soil and drought, made it attractive to public works horticulturists, who planted it along highways to prevent erosion and attract wildlife. They didn't account for its highly viable seed, spread by birds, and its tendency to overcrowd native species, landing it squarely on the federal invasive species list. Here, in the Northeast, Autumn Olive is classified as an invasive exotic gone feral. I can certainly vouch for that.

It does, however, have a saving grace— it produces edible fruit.

In late fall, the green drupes begin to blush. Their color deepens and darkens with the onset of cold. When green, they are tannic and unpalatable— much like raw green olives. As they ripen, the tannins give way to tartness and eventually sweetness, which doesn't occur until they are threatened by frost. When fully ripe, as they are now, they straddle a balance of sweet and tart, with a flavor that is reminiscent of pomegranates, currants and cranberries.

The fruit has captured the attention of the USDA, who gave it a new name, Autumnberry, and opened an Autumnberry research lab in hopes of promoting their rich nutritional value. The berries contain high levels of vitamin A, C, and E, as well as flavonoids and carotenoids, but it is their particularly high levels of the antioxidant lycopene that makes them unique. With 30-70 mg of lycopene per 100 g of fruit, it surpasses (by up to 17 times) the levels found in raw tomato.

And so, after identifying the plant and learning of its edible fruit, I watched and waited. At least once a week, I climbed the mountain to check on their progress and taste for the developing sweetness. Last week, on a cold, windy day following a light frost, they were ready. I picked a few quarts, forcing myself to stop when my bare fingers became too cold and stiff to continue. It felt completely surreal and unnatural to be harvesting fruit in November— but aren't the sweetest things in life the ones that take you by surprise and not the ones you plan for? And even though Autumnberry robbed me of my dreams of cherries, pears, apples, and plums, I forgive them because— in an entirely unexpected way— I have my mountain orchard after all.

aged gouda
autumnberry cheese
comice pear
pumpkinseed oil

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.

bat wings

Chicken wings basted with black sesame paste, soy sauce, mirin, and brown sugar.

Pomegranate ketchup.

Butternut squash crisps… because even bloodsuckers need veggies.

This would be pure kitsch if it weren't so good.

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.

ginger pumpkin cake

More play with dehydrated flavor sheets in batter.

This time— dehydrated pumpkin in a fresh ginger root cake. This sheet, because it contains solids, is more of a chewy leather than a brittle crisp and converts to a soft, melting texture in the moist environment of the batter.

On the left are random strips embedded in the batter. On the right, strips were layered horizontally. Notice how the as the cake rose, it broke and disrupted some of the sheets. Interesting pattern, but I was going for a layered cake look. Next time, I'll try laying them in vertically.

Besides adding visual and textural interest, I think the true merit of this technique is in producing a cake with a baked-in filling. Now, to figure out how to get the frosting in there too.

Download recipe: ginger pumpkin cake

smoked buttermilk ranch dressing

Butter is a ubiquitous staple in my house. There is always a soft stick on the counter and a pound or two waiting in the refrigerator. On the rare occasion when the supply dwindles, a quiet panic takes over when I unwrap the last stick– kind of like running out of toilet paper.

It's been fun— to say the least— having infused butters on hand to play with. Instead of inspiring new dishes, they proved their usefulness by elevating the everyday food that I cook for myself and my family. Whenever I questioned whether it was worth the extra work to make my own butter— whether cultured, flavor-infused, caramelized (or should I say Maillardized?), or smoked— I had only to swirl a knob into a pan of steamed or pureed vegetables, pasta, or rice. Sauces were transformed. Ordinary baked goods took on flavors and aromas that seemed to breathe new life into them. Even a morning slice of toast gave cause to linger.

And if there were still any doubt, having fresh buttermilk on hand sweetens the deal. Chicken, marinated in smoked buttermilk prior to frying, convinced me that smoked butter should will be a staple.

Maybe I say that now because the imminent cold equates the flavor of smoke with the warmth of hearth.

Or maybe it was the chocolate chip cookies made with smoked butter?

Naw, I'm pretty sure that the salad with the smoked ranch dressing and bbq cornbread croutons cemented the deal.

bbq cornbread

The step from bbq grits to bbq cornbread, while by no means a leap of imagination, was simply another exploration of the marriage of bbq sauce and cornmeal. I was curious to see what a sweet and acidic medium would do to a product that is typically coarse and dry. The flavor was predictably good, the reward came in the moist and tender crumb that I have not been able to achieve with dairy products alone.

I also wanted to explore the notion of folding chips of dehydrated sauce into a batter. This worked out quite well as they rehydrated in the moisture released in baking and formed soft, melting pockets of flavor that were well defined– not unlike chocolate chips. In that context, the doors of extrapolation have swung wide open.

Download recipe: bbq cornbread