inside-out cake

I've been toying with the idea of a cake with the frosting baked inside. I haven't had much luck using a conventional method of layering the frosting in the batter. Invariably, it would sink or create irregular pockets. Further attempts at lightening the frosting caused it to be partially absorbed by the batter. I was holding out for a clean and neat delineation.

In an unrelated experiment, I was heating an orb of butter that had been reverse-spherified in an alginate bath and realized that it withstood a fair amount of heat before the membrane ruptured. You can guess the rest.

This carrot cake was still warm when I cut into it, causing the cream cheese frosting to flow, but it was centered and well-defined. It took a little trial-and-error to get it to this point.

In the first trial, I scooped balls from the firm, chilled frosting and dropped them into an alginate bath (5g sodium alginate/ 1 litre water) for 30 minutes. The alginate reacts with the calcium present in the cream cheese and butter– forming a clear membrane around the frosting. Muffin tins were filled halfway with batter, a frosting sphere was embedded in each, then covered with another layer of batter. As they baked, the spheres rose up and broke through the surface of the batter and the membranes ruptured. Fail.

In the next trial, I flattened the frosting into a disc and repeated the steps, using a broader ramekin as a mold. This worked, I think, because it created more surface tension, keeping the frosting submerged.

I can't deny that it was satisfying to succeed, but I am far more excited about the possibilities that have opened up.

carrot cake

Back when I was baking full time, I had a customer consult me about a dessert to complete a special meal for a houseguest. He explained that the guest was foreign and he wanted to serve him a classic American cake. I made suggestions, and after some deliberation he decided to order a carrot cake. Just before he left, he felt inclined to inform me that the guest was a world-renowned French pastry chef. When he dropped his name, I nearly fainted dead away.

In the ensuing days, I became obsessed with carrot cake. It occupied my every thought. It infiltrated my dreams and became fodder for nightmares.

I knew that I had to hit this one out of the park and that the bakery's recipe that I inherited was not going to cut it. The frosting was easy– it had to be cream cheese and butter, lightly sweetened and brightened with lemon juice. The cake was the crux. I gathered and analyzed every recipe that I could find, looking for the je ne sais quoi that would make it distinct. I made small test batches using various additions of nuts, coconut, pineapple, and even chocolate chips. These, I decided, were perversions and only distracted from what I wanted to achieve: a refined cake with a fine, moist crumb that tasted of sweet, caramelized carrots. It was back to square one.

I started with the basic structure of the cake: fat, starch, sugar, liquid, eggs, leavening, flavoring, and looked at their ratios. While oil (typically used in carrot cake) ensures a moist product, it makes it… well, oily. I opted for the flavor and texture of butter– putting it into the butter cake category where butter, flour, and sugar are used in equal amounts (by weight), liquid makes up about 2/3 and eggs about 1/3. The ratio for a basic butter cake looks like this: 3:butter 3:flour 3:sugar 2:liquid 1:eggs (plus leavening and flavoring). The tweaking of these ratios would be largely dependent on the form of liquid, or moisture used. In a typical carrot cake recipe, some of the moisture comes from the grated carrots as they cook in the batter. Not wanting the coarseness of grated carrots, I tested a recipe using carrot puree, but I didn't like the diluted flavor of the precooked carrots. Freshly extracted carrot juice provided the bright color and flavor that I was after.

After adjusting the ratios to produce a soft, moist cake, I examined the flavor. I dropped the amount of spices (cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger) so that they were a mere whisper in the background. I replaced some of the sugar with brown sugar, then Muscavado (Muscavado has a purer flavor because the molasses isn't removed in processing as it is in brown sugar) in an effort to deepen the flavor. Overall, I was satisfied with the cake, but something kept nagging at me. It was the deep, buttery, caramelized flavor of a fine dark rum that my brain kept referencing. I wished that I could've added caramel without seriously affecting the texture. Then I remembered a 'trick' I used with creme brulee, where the sugar was cooked to a deep amber, allowed to harden, then ground to a fine powder. I simply replaced the sugar in the recipe with this pre-caramelized sugar and I had a superlative cake that I could be proud of, not only because I was confident that it would please a discriminating palate, but also because it was uniquely my own and it pleased me.

I left that restaurant shortly afterwards and never did get any feedback on the carrot cake. Years later, I read an article in a food magazine that asked international chefs for their favorite American foods. A certain world-renowned French pastry chef was among those interviewed. I think I remember his list containing chocolate chip cookies and key lime pie, but I will never forget that on that list, in black and white, was carrot cake.

Download recipe: Carrot Cake

corn langoustine plantago

There's a prevalent flavor in raw plantago that intrigues me. It's the same nutty oiliness that is found in arugula. It's reminiscent of a nut oil that is starting to go off– not rancid, but strangely pleasant. Unlike arugula, it's not followed by a sharp bite. Like arugula, it matches well with corn.

Anything cold and easy is all that I crave on these dog days of summer. Fresh corn, put through a juicer along with a chunk of fresh coconut, seasoned with salt and a squeeze of lime, requires little energy to prepare and even less to consume. Swirling on fresh plantago juice and brown buttermilk allows the flavors to meet and mingle on the palate and not be muddied on the plate. A quick salad of langoustine tails, dressed with a light and tangy brown buttermilk vinaigrette completes the dish.

eggs benedict

Some dishes have stood the test of time by honoring tradition. Innovative chefs seek to redefine these classics by examining the flavors and textures that make the dish appealing and attempt to give us a purer, focused version. When successfully executed, the new dish feels like a rarefied distillation of the old. I think this is called refinement.

Eggs Benedict certainly falls prey to this category and I have yet to taste a better interpretation than the one served at WD-50. So good, in fact, that I had it twice on the same day.

Every component on Wylie Dufresne's plate is beyond reproach: Wafer-thin slices of crispy Canadian Bacon. Toasty English Muffin crumbs holding together a mind-bending cube of liquid hollandaise. But it was the egg yolk that did me in. Cooked sous vide at 70C for 17 minutes, egg yolks are transformed to the texture of soft, dense fudge that coats the mouth and leaves the tongue happily lapping over and over it like a dog with peanut butter. (OK, that was just me. That, I'm certain, is not called refinement.)

left: seasoned and whipped egg white quenelles, poached in barely simmering water.

center: seasoned egg yolks in sealed piping bag, 70C water bath.

right: piping cooked yolks.

Eggs Benedict v.1.1

70C egg yolks

brown butter hollandaise

whipped egg whites

crispy serrano ham

bacon curls

crispy ciabatta

plantago

Eggs Benedict v.1.2:

egg yolk wrapped in serrano ham "cooked" in dehydrator at 150F for 45 minutes.

brown butter hollandaise

mini English Muffin

plantago

Plantago is a common weed found in lawns, meadows, and sidewalk cracks. Its common name, plantain, is a misnomer, as it is not related to the plantain (in the banana family) or the plantain lily (Hosta), though the leaves of the broadleaf variety (Plantago major) do resemble those of hosta.

Plantago grows from a fibrous taproot that produces basal rosette leaves and seed stalks from April through October. When young, all parts of the plant are tender and edible. By midsummer, the leaves toughen and require cooking to render them edible and the mature stalks are too fibrous to eat. An advantage of allowing plantago to grow in the lawn is that mowing curtails seed production, forcing the plant to continuously produce new seed stalks that are tender, nutty, and buttery when only a few inches tall.

Medicinally, plantago is a powerhouse, used as an emollient, astringent, antimicrobial, antiviral, antitoxin, diuretic, demulcent, and vulnerary. When taken internally as a tea, it lowers blood sugar and treats lung and stomach disorders. Externally, as a poultice, it treats sores, burns, stings, rashes, and insect bites.

left: Embryonic seeds on a tender stalk of Plantago major growing in the lawn.

right: The mature seed stalks of the narrow-leaf variety (Plantago lanceolata) can be harvested and roasted for a delicious, nutty treat. When soaked, the seeds become mucilaginous (particularly those of P. phsyllium) and are used to in fiber supplement products.

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.

raspberry kaffir shortcake

brown butter biscuit

raspberry

kaffir cream

brown butter biscuit

When I was learning to bake, I was limited to my mother's repertoire of eggy desserts and cookbooks from the local library. These were either the Americana "Joy of Cooking"/Betty Crocker genre or the French Julia Child/Jacques Pepin variety. Unlike savory cooking, baking humbled me with its exactitude and thrilled me with the unlimited variations that could be coaxed from a few common ingredients: butter, sugar, flour, eggs, leavening.

It also confounded me with its nomenclature.

It took me awhile to figure out that beignets, fritters, crullers, and churros were all essentially the same thing. Or that a profiterole is a petite cream puff, which has nothing to do with puff pastry. Or that a torte is just a cake with a pedigree and a galette is a free-spirited tart. And one that confuses everybody– macaron/macaroons— though they differ by just one letter, they are worlds apart.

What really boggled me is the distinction between a biscuit, a scone, and shortcake. In Britain, a biscuit (from the Latin bis cuit, meaning twice-cooked) refers to what we know is North America as a cookie or cracker. In the US, particularly in the South, a biscuit is a round scone or a shortcake (to "shorten" a dough is to make it tender and flaky by the addition of fat, unlike bread, which has long glutinous starch fibers). A shortcake is a biscuit (or scone) that is split and filled with berries and cream, not to be confused with the sponge-like "shortcakes" that are sold in grocery stores.

Don't even get me started on shortbread.

To add to the confusion, Wiki defines shortcake as: a sweet biscuit (in the American sense: that is, a crumbly, baking soda- or baking powder-leavened bread, known in British English as a scone), and a dessert made with that biscuit.

See what I mean?

What I'm not confused about is why I like biscuits and their ilk. First, there's the contrast between the dry, crunchy exterior and the soft, moist interior. It's like eating cake seamlessly wrapped in pastry. Then there's the flavor alchemy of butter and flour, boosted by buttermilk– sweet and tangy inside, toasty and nutty outside. In the past, I've made biscuits with conventional brown butter (beurre noisette) in an attempt to exploit the toasty flavor. While the flavor was good, the texture seemed to be missing something– the milk solids, no doubt.

And, there was certainly no confusion over what to do with the new brown products: butter, cream, buttermilk. In fact, they seemed custom-made for my favorite buttermilk biscuit recipe that I have tweaked over the years. While I was at it, I fully committed to the power of brown by toasting some of the flour (toasting destroys the starch molecules in flour, leaving it inert) and incorporating piloncillo (deeply-flavored unrefined brown sugar). I was sure that after building such a strong team of Maillard players, that they would tackle the taste buds upon contact.

They didn't.

What they did was play slowly and methodically, overtaking me when I stopped looking. And long after the game should have ended, they were still playing on and on and on…..

Download recipe: Brown butter biscuits

brown butter

Place a knob of butter in a pan.

Heat until it turns golden brown and smells toasty and nutty.

This is how brown butter has been made since Medieval times.

During any given day, ideas ebb and flow through the recesses of my often-tired brain. Rarely do I commit them to paper–trusting my memory to retain, file, and recall them at will. I'm delusional that way.

Take, for instance, last year when I showed you how to make mascarpone and experimented with 'caramelizing'* dairy products in sealed mason jars in a pressure cooker. Though the results varied (lebne and sour cream turned out a curdled mess), others, like heavy cream, took on a toasty, nutty aroma that inspired a slew of products. Some of these (whipped cream and butter) I even recorded in black and white in case my recalcitrant memory failed me. Still…

One would think that when I went on to show you how to make butter and played with endless variations of infusing flavor into heavy cream, that I would have remembered the fragrant complexity of the brown cream. But no…

Sometimes it takes a spark of inspiration from someone else's brain to awaken mine. Looking at this gorgeous garlic bread sauce connected the dots and called me to action.

Now, with brown cream, buttermilk, and butter in hand, my oscillating brain is resolute with possibilities. I'd write them down, but notes get lost and posts are forgotten. Nor will I leave these to my delusions. If I've learned anything, it's to move when inspiration strikes.

*Referring to the browning of dairy products as 'caramelizing' is inaccurate as pointed out by Robert L. Wolke in his book What Einstein Told His Cook, "the word caramelization should be reserved for the browning of sugar- any kind of sugar- in the absence of protein. When sugars or starches occur together with proteins as they do in onions, breads, and meats, the browning is mostly due to the Maillard reaction, not caramelization."

To make brown cream: Fill a mason jar with heavy cream, leaving a 1/2" of headspace. Seal tightly with a lid and band. Place in a pressure cooker and add enough hot water to the pc to come halfway up the side of the jar. Cover and lock the pc. Cook at 10psi for 2 hours.

To make brown butter: Follow the directions here: Download Cultured butter, replacing the heavy cream with brown cream and skipping the ripening & ageing step, starting at churning.

The miracle of milk [1 ingredient = 4 products]: brown cream, brown whipped cream, brown butter, brown buttermilk. All that, without even mentioning cheese.

scallop milkweed curry

I found some old photos of my very first garden. I was taken aback by how pristine it looked– perfect rows, not a weed in sight. I remember how diligent I was back then. A lot has changed.

I used to think that if I was going to put the time, work and expense into cultivating a patch of earth, that I had the right to choose what could live there– the freeloaders had plenty of other options. Despite my democratic world views, any semblances of egalitarianism were firmly checked at the garden gate.

Over the years, I've made peace with the weeds. Mostly, I grew tired of feeling defeated. But the softening could also be attributed to a newfound appreciation that runs parallel with an accumulation of life lessons:

Life Lesson Cliche #1: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade (or better yet, wine). I've always collected tender, young dandelion leaves for salads and such, but this year it was gratifying to utilize the blossoms for dandelion wine.

Life Lesson Cliche #2: Pick your battles (aka Parental Survival Tactic #1). I still pull dandelions out of the lawn, but I leave the more tenacious clover for 'textural character'.

Life Lesson Cliche #3: You can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse (don't believe it). Even fierce and hostile stinging nettles can be transformed into an elegant and refined soup.

Life Lesson Cliche #4: Shit happens (deal with it). On the morning of an important dinner that I had planned down to the last detail, I went to the rock garden to harvest newly planted cultivars of oxalis that I had purchased for the occasion, only to find that they had been loped off by an animal. The common yellow-flowered oxalis that proliferates everywhere came to the rescue and no one was the wiser.

Life Lesson Cliche #5: Stop and smell the roses (and the weeds). While working in the yard one night, I caught a whiff of a sultry, sweet scent that I couldn't identify. I followed it to a patch of tall plants with large allium-like flowers with a captivating scent that I later identified as milkweed. Though I didn't know what they were then, I instantly recognized the leaves as being the same weed that I had been pulling out of the vegetable garden for years. To make up for my indiscretion, I gave milkweed a place of honor in my flower garden. And because it's edible, it's also welcome in the vegetable garden.

Regarding weeds, the best lesson is: If you can't beat 'em, eat 'em.

scallop ceviche

milkweed

cucumber

curry

salad burnet