three little figs

Once upon a time, not so long ago or far away, there was a very special fig.

Figgy [as she liked to be called] was no ordinary fig. She was a fig with aspirations.

Indeed, all figs have aspirations; they all want to be immortal. In the glory of their ripeness, they put on their dusky makeup and most alluring perfume in hopes of attracting hungry birds and beasts to spread their seed.
But our Figgy wanted something different for herself. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and to live on as a fond memory.

To this end, Figgy placed ads in dozens of newspapers. She received many replies, but thought none earnest. [She was convinced that they were all just greedy bluejays.] Then she received a call from a chef who seemed genuinely interested. Figgy followed her instincts and agreed to a formal meeting.

The meeting was held at the chef's restaurant. Chef greeted her warmly and seated her at a table in the kitchen, then proceeded to present her with dish after dish of the finest food she had ever tasted. After dinner, Chef joined Figgy for a glass of Port and asked her about herself.

Figgy told Chef that her ancestors had come from a faraway land that was once called Persia, but is now known as Iran. They had lived there for centuries in the most splendid gardens that the world had ever seen.
"Did you know that the word paradise is from an ancient Persian word for walled garden?" asked Figgy.
From there, they migrated west to Egypt, then north to Greece, where figs were held in high esteem by both slaves and royalty.
"My forebears were among the figs that concealed the asp in Cleopatra's basket and flourished in King Alcinous' orchard during Odysseus' visit."
"Fascinating", said Chef and begged her to continue.
"Successive generations continued westward along the Mediterranean: Rome, Provence, Andalucia, and finally the Algarve, where my grandmother settled. When my mother was just a sapling, she was packed in a box and shipped across the Atlantic to New England. That's where she lives now; in a pot on a terrace during the bearing season and winters in a heated greenhouse. She is happy and well cared for."

"And you?" asked Chef, "Tell me why you're here."
"I was born in the greenhouse and moved onto the terrace when I was still very young. The family that cared for us would gather there every night for dinner. From high up on one of my mother's boughs, I would watch them feast on the most sumptuous foods. With every bite, they all agreed that it was the best they had ever tasted and that they would remember it forever. It was then that I realized that I didn't want to be gobbled up by a hungry bird. I want to be savored, to be lingered over, to be remembered! I'm hoping that you can help me with that."

"I will do my best, but tell me… what would you like me to do with you?"
Figgy had thought long and hard about this. It's true; she was a dreamer, but she was also a sensible fig. She understood that in order to make a lasting impression, she needed some enhancement. In her haste to fulfill her destiny, perhaps she had left her mother too soon and was not as sweet and ripe as she could have been.
"I can fix that with a bit of honey." said Chef.

Figgy's mother had taught her many things about her history and her anatomy. She often lamented that figs are mistaken for fruit when they are actually flowers. She had explained that inside herself were hundreds of flowers that looked like long, thin filaments, and that each one held a seed. These seeds, she had said, were what perpetuated their species and held them in regard as an ancient symbol of fertility. But they were often cursed by humans for getting caught in their teeth and interrupting the sensual experience of eating figs.
Chef listened to her concern and suggested that a blender would break down her seeds, if she would allow it.

Figgy was not afraid of the blender or what it would do to her, she was ready to sacrifice herself fully. But she was adamant about retaining her form, of which she was fiercely proud, despite it's phallic shape that has been a source of embarrassment to both men and women throughout the ages. So much so, that the original Arabic word for figs is now considered an obscenity.
"No problem" said Chef "I can mold you so that you will look exactly like yourself, but better."

This pleased Figgy and she was anxious to get started, but Chef was hesitant.
"I think that to make you truly memorable, you will need to share the spotlight with other flavors. If we do it right, they will not rob you of your glory, but make you more delicious. Will you trust me?"
When Figgy seemed amenable, Chef continued, "Great! I'd like to introduce you to some of my friends that I think you will get along with very nicely."

Chef rushed into the kitchen, swept things up off the counter, and laid them out in front of Figgy.

"First, I'd like you to meet Onion Caramel. She may look cloyingly sweet, but she's surprisingly sassy."
"Yes, I like her." said Figgy taking a taste "She's got lots of personality!"

"Next, there's Dark Chocolate. He's smooth, suave, mysterious and seductive, but with a bitter edge to balance your sweetness."
"Oh my, I'd better stand my ground with him or he will sweep me off my feet."

"And, finally" said Chef, lifting the lid off a round, wooden box "there's Epoisses."
Figgy shrieked and stepped back, holding her breath.
"Now don't be afraid. I know Epoisses seems offensive, but I assure you, it's only skin-deep. If you take some time to get to know her, you'll find that she's full of character and actually sweet and mild on the inside."
Figgy watched Chef cut through the rind and expose a pale, creamy heart. She tasted carefully and found Epoisses agreeable and lovely.

"So, when do we get started?" asked Figgy.

The next morning Chef entered the kitchen to find Figgy and her friends engaged in a lively conversation.
When Chef asked Figgy if she was ready, she pulled Chef aside and said in a hushed tone, "I really love my new friends. We couldn't get along any better, but I'm worried. They are all such wonderfully memorable characters, how can I stand out among them?"

Chef understood and said reassuringly, "Figgy, I promise you that when I present your dish tonight that it will only be you that they see. And from then on, when they remember your dish, it will be you that they reference."

Chef and staff worked steadily throughout the day in preparation for the special meal. Every seat for both sittings were full and expectations were high. Course after course of Chef's carefully planned and executed meal was dispatched from the kitchen with only a few minor glitches. Figgy's dish was the final course.
When the last plate left the kitchen, Chef congratulated the staff, cleared the pass, hung her apron, and entered the dining room.

Late that evening, Chef was alone in the kitchen writing menus, taking inventory, and listing orders for the next day's deliveries. Intermittently, she paused to reflect on the evening's accolades. There had been so many kind words from her guests: enthusiastic bloggers snapped photos and offered praise, critics hinted at rave reviews. There was even conjecture of a Michelin star. But the words that pleased her most were: "…the fig dish…", followed by various adjectives, " fantastic!… delicious!… brilliant!… memorable!"

As Chef turned the lock on the restaurant for the night, she felt overwhelming gratification.
For giving her best.
For pleasing her guests.
For making her staff proud.
But most of all, for keeping her promise to Figgy.

left to right:
dark chocolate-covered epoisses
onion caramel
Figgy

epoisses

Epoisses is a washed rind cheese from the village of Epoisses in Burgundy, France. The characteristically slimy orange rind develops in the maturing stage as the ripening wheels of cheese are washed in a progressively concentrated solution of Marc de Bourgogne. When ripe and served at an ambient temperature, the pale paste, or pate, is almost liquid with an elastic resilience.

Epoisses has the distinction of being ranked among the world's most odiferous cheeses; 'rank' being an apropos term. It's fragrance, which can be described as "a loaded diaper that has smoldered in the sun for a few days", has caused it to be banned on public transportation in France. The flavor of epoisses is surprisingly mild in comparison to it's odor; a sublime contrast of delicate, milky sweetness, winey complexity, a salty, metallic sting, and funky fermentation. You will either embrace it or run screaming.

In France, epoisses is traditionally made from unpasteurized cow's milk. The US doesn't allow imported cheese from unpasteurized milk unless it has been aged over 60 days, resulting in a mature cheese that lacks the fruitiness of a youthful one. The most commonly available epoisses in the US is the Berthaut brand (pictured above), made from pasteurized milk. It is reputed to lack the nuances of a true epoisses. I'll have to wait until a trip to France before I can attest to that, but for now, I'm quite content in stinky-cheese heaven.

hamachi soy allium

I'm thinking of changing my job description from 'Freelance Chef' to 'Cook-on-Call'. These days, at least, that's how it seems to play out— people call and I go cook.

I received one such call recently to cook dinner for two on that same day. It was 3pm when the call came in.

The requests were clear and succinct:
dinner at 6
light fare
asian flavors
no meat— fish ok
3-5 small courses
no dessert
keep it simple

Secretly, I love these impromptu jobs. When I have days or weeks to plan the details of a meal, I feel as if I've already cooked it in my head and the actual preparation is anti-climatic. Of course, familiarity with the kitchen and the client's palate helps alleviate some of the stress.

Knowing that there was only time for one stop, I gathered supplies from my pantry, vegetable bin, garden, and china closet, deliberately overpacking to cover the unknown variables. I also packed my camera; which I often do, but rarely end up using.

At the fish market I asked for the freshest catch and was shown a pristine hamachi with the head removed. I bought the upper half (about 2 lbs.) with the collar attached, and nothing else.

With the protein decided, I was free to plan the meal. I wanted to start with a raw preparation and end with the grilled collar, but while considering the other courses, I kept returning to the hamachi. It's a beautifully versatile fish that lends itself to many preparations, both raw and cooked. As I went back and forth about including sashimi, tartar, poached belly, or tempura, I realized that what I really wanted to do was an all-hamachi dinner. Furthermore, I wanted to weave the same flavors: fish, soy, allium, throughout the courses. The client had asked for simplicity, but would they be happy with an entire meal based on variations of the same flavor profile? By the time that I pulled into the driveway, I decided that they would.

As I unpacked, the client appeared in the kitchen to greet me and ask "What's for dinner?"
I might have laughed nervously, but my response was confident and emphatic,
"I hope you like hamachi!"

hamachi belly lime-pickled jicama sushi rice soy allium

hamachi sashimi tartar allium triquetrum granita

hamachi poached in dashi powdered soy and wasabi
spruce tip fluid gel lime zest

hamachi tempura dashi with miso and ponzu
pickled allium triquetrum bulbs peppercress

grilled hamachi collar tamari allium

To a cook, a clean plate speaks louder than compliments.

allium triquetrum

These allium were sent to me from Oregon, simply labeled as "wild onions". Originally, I thought they were ramsons (Allium ursinum), which grow wild in my area in the early spring. However, the triangular stems were exceedingly long and lacked the characteristic broad leaves that often cause ramsons to be confused with lily of the valley (a toxic plant). Further research revealed that they are, in fact, Allium triquetrum, commonly known as three-cornered leek, a species of Allium indigenous to the Mediterranean. They are also reported to grow in temperate areas of Britain and Japan. In the US, they are only found along coastal Oregon and California, where they are classified as an invasive weed.

All parts of the plant possess a refined leek/garlic flavor and aroma. The bulbs are dense and crisp, like water chestnuts, and are mild enough to eat raw, as are the lower part of the stems. The dark upper stems are fibrous and need to be cooked. The loose clusters of white flowers are more delicate in flavor. After the petals fall, the developed bulbils resemble caper berries, but with a subtle sulphuric flavor.

I see an extraordinary Gibson Martini in my near future.

citrus

High up on a remote mountaintop on the coast of central California, there lies a paradise of citrus with over three hundred different varieties of rare and exotic cultivars from all corners of the earth. The fruit there is not grown for commerce, but out of a strong interest, curiosity, and love by Gene Lester, a citrus-enthusiast.

This box of sunshine comes to me via Chef David Kinch, whose longstanding friendship with Mr. Lester and mutual interest, curiosity and love of exceptional product allows him access to the private collection of trees.

Chef Kinch's two-Michelin-star Manresa is among the handful of restaurants in this country* that offer a true farm-to-table experience. The diversity and quality of the produce that is grown for Manresa at Love Apple Farm is stunning, as shown in this video.

These are exceptional specimens—each one a jewel— and I am grateful to the spirit of generosity and sharing that brought them to me. In the same spirit, I'd like to share them with you— in the only way that I can— through pictures and words.

For further information and descriptions of these cultivars, I've compiled a downloadable catalog.

Download catalog: Citrus Cultivars

*the T&L article fails to recognize McCrady's in Charleston, where Chef/Farmer Sean Brock grows an amazing array of vegetables for his kitchen, among them heirloom varieties indigenous to the lowcountry, as well as raises pigs for an extensive charcuterie program.

yuzu miso

"At night with the 'kettle' of yu-miso on the fire I hear it reproaching me"
—Ryota

The Japanese Tea Ceremony is a a way of life that transcends rituals and customs. Throughout its four hundred year history, it has inspired philosophies and aesthetics that have come to define the Japanese culture. One aesthetic principle that arose from the Zen influence is wabi-sabi.

Wabi-sabi is an intuitive appreciation of the transient beauty that exists in the humble, modest, imperfect, and even in decay. It is finding refinement in the unrefined.

It might be said that wabi-sabi is seeing a flower in a dying bulb.

Or, maybe even, finding poetry in a citrus kettle.

Yuzu miso, as the name implies, is a yuzu-scented miso from the Shizuoka and Nagano prefectures in Japan. It is typically used in Dengaku, an ancient form of miso cuisine, where various foods are lightly grilled, glazed with miso, then finished grilling.

Commercially prepared yuzu miso is made by simmering white (shiro) miso with sugar, then blending in yuzu zest. The ancient preparation, yuzu gama (literally, yuzu kettle), where the seasoned miso is cooked in a hollowed-out yuzu, is far more romantic in concept and exemplary of the Japanese approach to cooking.

To make yuzu gama miso: Blend together 150g shiro miso, 38g sake, 50g mirin, and 17g sugar. Slice the tops off of 4 yuzu. Remove all of the pulp and membranes from the insides, leaving only the rind. Pack the seasoned miso into the hollowed-out yuzu and replace the tops. Place on a baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes at 350F/178C, or until miso is bubbly. Will keep in refrigerator for up to a month.

Over the years, I've attempted to grow nearly every type of allium that I could find seeds for. Shallots and cipollini are perennial favorites because they require little space to grow and will keep throughout the winter when stored in a cool, dark place. I'm still experimenting with garlic, looking for a variety that will flesh out into plump heads instead of the paltry ones that I've been getting. And with onions being so readily available, I don't usually grow them unless I find an interesting variety.

Last fall, a friend gave me a bag of a sweet onion variety called "Candy", which I promptly deposited in a makeshift root cellar. Months later, I found they had begun to sprout. Sweet onions, because they have a higher water content, are not great keepers.

When bulbs sprout, the new growth draws on the energy that is stored in the parent bulb. In the case of alliums, the quality of the edible flesh becomes compromised and, eventually, consumed. Instead of composting them, I decided to force them like hyacinths, if for no other reason than to watch something grow.

Many flowering bulbs such as hyacinth, tulips, and narcissus can be forced to flower out of season, provided that they have been exposed to temperatures between 35-45F for a minimum of 12 weeks. I buy bulbs in the fall and store them in bags of peat moss in a spare refrigerator to force after New Years. To start them growing, simply place in a vessel with a mouth that is just narrow enough to allow only the base of the bulb through. A glass with tapered sides is perfect. Fill the glass with just enough water to cover the base of the bulb (left image). Submerging the bulb will cause it to rot. Alternately, bulbs can be supported by filling bowls with small stones and maintaining the water level. After about a week (center image) the roots begin to emerge and the shoots start to take off. After 2 weeks (right image) the bulb sends out multiple roots to support the vigorous growth. Bulbs forced in water can take 3-5 weeks to bloom.

I had intended to watch them grow— perhaps to flower— but upon tasting the new shoots, I found they were mild and sweet and begging to be braised with yuzu miso.

yuzu kosho

Many foods are defined by their aroma and yuzu is no exception. In fact, the distinct aroma of yuzu has earned it its very own aroma compound, Yuzunone, as documented in this recent study.

In Japan, yuzu is most enjoyed in its ripe stage, when the albedo has softened and the skin turns a bright yellow-orange. When ripe, the terpenes mature into an intoxicating blend of musky-citrus-floral-pine notes. In its green stage— before the chlorophyll is destroyed and the carotenoids develop— the fruit displays sharp herbaceous-pine notes.

Yuzu kosho is a condiment from Kyushu Island in southern Japan that utilizes both stages of yuzu. Green yuzu kosho is made from unripe yuzu zest and green chilies. Red yuzu kosho uses yellow yuzu zest and red chilies. Though they use the same products, they are unique in taste and a good example of the vicissitude of flavor in developing fruit.

To make yuzu kosho, whether green or red, simply blend finely minced chili flesh (leave out the seeds and white membranes) with finely minced yuzu zest and salt to taste. Depending on the level of capsicum present in the chilies, and your tolerance to it, the proportions are typically 6:3:1 (chili:yuzu:salt). The mixture can also be pounded in a mortar with a pestle for a smoother paste.

In this dish, I liquified the yuzu kosho with dashi to mimic the smooth texture of the chawanmushi and to contrast with the firm, meaty texture of octopus.

Octopus and I have a long, complicated history. On the one hand, the presence of octopus on the tables of my childhood marked the joyous occasions and holidays when friends and family would gather together. On the other hand, it was a challenging flavor and texture for a child to deal with and certainly not something I looked forward to eating. Even the rice in the ubiquitous dish, Arroz de Polvo, cooked in the acerbic braising liquid, was hard to get down. I was, however, fascinated with the suckers. Noting how they resembled the plastic suction cups on the ends of toy darts, I entertained myself by attaching them to every available surface, including myself. It's possible that octopus suckers were the precursor to a lifelong fascination with the genius designs found in nature.

Fascinations aside, I avoided octopus for most of my life— until I was unwittingly served a grilled octopus salad that changed everything.

According to Harold McGee, in his opus On Food and Cooking, "[octopus} must be cooked either barely and briefly to prevent the muscle fibers from toughening, or for a long time to break down the collagen. Cooked quickly to 130-135F/55-57C, their flesh is moist and almost crisp."

I already knew this was true of squid and abalone but the memory of the long-cooked octopus was too deeply ingrained to put it together. And if I'm being truthful; even if I had, I wouldn't have bothered. Why waste time preparing something that I wouldn't enjoy?

And although I was served a plate of octopus salad that I hadn't ordered, I accepted it as a challenge to myself. One bite of the flash-grilled octopus not only exposed my prejudice, but proved it wrong. The pleasure that I found in the snappy texture and clean flavor reminded me of why it's important to play with food— it's only with an open mind and a willingness to explore that we discover things that please and delight us— whether it's source lies in the maturity of an exotic fruit or a creature from the deep sea.

baby octopus

yuzu kosho

chawanmushi

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?

buddah’s hand citron

If a squid and a lemon had a love child, I imagine it would look like a Buddah's hand citron.

The visually striking Buddah's hand citron (Citrus medica var. sarcodactylis) is an ancient species of citrus, a genetic mutation that originated in Northeastern India or China. It's fragrance is sweet and floral— like lemons and oranges, kissed by violets— and so powerful that in China it's used to scent rooms and tucked in with clothing and linens.

Buddah's hand citron has no pulp or juice— just a fragrant rind, laden with essential oils, and a mild, sweet albedo (pith), devoid of the bitterness found in other citrus.

I purchased a pair of them in early December and after admiring their forms and fragrance on display around the house, it was time to bring them into the kitchen.

Buddah's hand citron is most commonly used in sweet applications, but I wanted to explore its use as a savory component. Knowing that I wouldn't have time to work them into a dish, I cut them into fingers and preserved them in salt and Meyer lemon juice. Nearly six weeks later, they were ready— and so was I.

Preserved in their salty and acidic bath, the rind of the Buddah's hand citron appeared darker and slightly shriveled, while the spongy albedo had softened and condensed. Like preserved lemons, they were fiercely pungent— salty and puckery, but underneath that was their characteristic sweet, floral aroma. Straight out of the brine, they would've made a distinctive accent to nearly anything from seafood to lamb, if used sparingly.

In an attempt to tone them down, I cooked them in a pressure cooker with water and just a spoonful of the brine. They turned out mellower in flavor with a melting soft texture that easily turned into a smooth puree in the food processor.

Now what?

thai pie

With the last of the kaffir limes I wanted to make a variation of Key Lime Pie. Have you ever wondered what prompted the use of sweetened condensed milk in this classic American dessert? I have. Apparently, the first pie was made in the Florida Keys in the late nineteenth century, shortly after Gail Borden introduced the product in the US in 1856. Before modern refrigeration, cooks in the hot climate of Key West had to rely on canned milk as fresh milk was not readily available. The rest, as they say, is history.

Although there are many applications for sweetened condensed milk, I can recall only ever using it for two things: Key Lime Pie and dulce de leche. See where I'm going?

Despite the warnings on the cans, I still make dulce de leche by boiling the sealed can in a pot of water. It's so easy. Unless you let the water boil away and the can explodes. Years later, I'm still cleaning that mess.

The caramelized flavor of the dulce de leche reminded me of the palm sugar in the Nahm Jeem Plah Poa Ubon sauce of the previous post. Along with the kaffir lime juice, I had the base in which to build the flavor profile of the sweet, tart, salty, spicy sauce that I so love. Don't worry— I left out the garlic and fish sauce. The salt is in the pastry crust and the spice, along with coconut powder, is in the meringue topping.

Download recipe: Thai pie