miso adaptations

Spontaneous fermentation is the oldest form of 'cooking'. Long before man understood the chemistry of how microorganisms preserved his food and heightened its flavor while making him healthier, he learned to control and manipulate the process. Each culture developed their unique specialties based on indigenous ingredients. Early travelers borrowed techniques from their neighbors and assimilated them to what was available back home.

In this spirit, I've taken the time-honored process of making miso and adapted it to the bounty of ingredients that are available in the modern world to make these trial batches. The choices were not arbitrary— they needed to fit the protein/starch profile that koji requires to feed upon. In some cases, soybeans were added to the base ingredient to boost the protein content. Many borders were crossed, but no bridges were burned.

No doubt, some will fail, and some will succeed, but that's part of the fun of discovery. Ultimately, flavor will dictate which ones will be pursued.

miso

I was making miso when I heard the news about Japan. Sendai miso. I stopped to watch the footage on the same TV screen that, at any given moment, on numerous other channels, I could watch other horrific scenes played out. But this was real. It was happening. Days later, it's still hard to grasp the destruction… the devastation… the loss… the redesign of geography… the bending of time. And as the crisis escalates from a natural disaster to one made by man, I remain in awe of the grace and dignity of the people of Japan.

prepared miso, ready for fermentation
The label indicates the date of production and date of "first sample".
I expect it to take at least a year until it will be ready for use.

Miso is surprisingly easy to make. The hardest parts are: waiting six months to over a year for the fermentation process to complete, and procuring the koji. Although shoyu, miso and sake combined make up 2 percent of the GNP of Japan, there are only about six companies that produce koji, making it difficult to buy in small quantities. I purchased mine from naturalimport.com, but even they are currently out of stock. If you are an adventurous do-it-yourself'er, you can make koji by inoculating rice with tane-koji (Aspergillus oryzae spores), available from GEM cultures.

There are many types of miso, ranging from sweet white (shiro miso), light yellow (shinshu miso), sweet red (edo miso), to barley miso (mugi miso). They vary by ratios of soybeans:koji:salt and in length of fermentation. Sometimes, as is the case with mugi miso, barley (instead of rice) is inoculated with the tane-koji. I chose to make red (sendai miso) because it is what I use most in my kitchen.

red miso (sendai miso)
makes 1.5 litres (just over 6 cups)

PREPARING TO MAKE MISO:
   • To avoid contamination, sterilize everything that will come in contact with the miso.
   • Choose a cylindrical earthenware or glass vessel whose diameter is less than its height. The miso should fill the vessel by at least 80%.
   • Choose a lid to fit snugly inside the vessel. It should be rigid and flat and can be of any material, but porous or reactive material should be well wrapped and sealed with several layers of plastic wrap.

PREPARING SOYBEANS:
1. Rinse 397g/14oz dried organic soybeans under cool running water, then place them into a pressure cooker*. Add 1L/1qt spring water. Cook on high pressure for 40 minutes, then allow pressure to release naturally. Beans should be soft enough to crush easily. (*If pressure cooker is unavailable, soak beans in water for 8-10 hours, then bring to a boil with 2L/2qts spring water. Reduce heat and cook beans at a simmer for 4-5 hours, or until tender.)
2. Pour hot, cooked beans through a strainer, reserving the liquid. Allow to drain for 10 minutes.
3. For a rough, rustic texture, mash beans with a fork or a potato masher. For smooth texture, puree in food processor. Transfer beans to a non-reactive bowl.

PREPARING MISO:
4. Measure 454g/16oz of the reserved bean cooking liquid. Add 163g/5.75oz kosher salt. Stir.
5. Add mixture to mashed beans. Stir until well blended.
6. Check the temperature of the bean mixture. It should be no higher than 37.78C/100F. Set aside to cool, if necessary, then add 340g/12oz koji. Stir until well blended.

PREPARING MISO FOR FERMENTATION:
7. With clean hands, moisten the inside of vessel by dabbing the walls and bottom with wet fingertips. Sprinkle 3g/½tsp kosher salt inside vessel and distribute evenly with fingertips.
8. Pack prepared miso tightly into vessel, stopping between layers to press and release trapped air pockets. Smooth top of miso and sprinkle 6g/1tsp kosher salt evenly over surface.
9. Cover miso with a piece of plastic wrap, pressing onto surface and draping over rim of vessel. Secure plastic wrap to top of vessel with a rubber band or string, leaving a little slack to allow for compression.
10. Fit lid inside rim of vessel. Press firmly. Place a 1-1.5kilo/2-3lb weight on top of lid. Affix label to vessel with the date of preparation and the estimated date of completion.

FERMENTATION:
For natural fermentation (1-3 years)— Choose a clean, cool (not over 21C/70F), dry location that is well ventilated and not in direct sunlight, such as a garage, barn, or cellar. Elevate vessel so that it is not sitting on floor. Do not disturb miso for at least the first six months, except to monitor the level of tamari (liquid) that rises to the top. After one month, if there is no tamari, increase the weight on the vessel. If there is more than 1/2", decrease the weight. After six months, The tamari can be tasted for aroma and flavor, keeping in mind that it will be saltier than the finished miso. Surface mold is not harmful and can be scraped off, in which case the surface should be re-salted and covered with a clean piece of plastic. Continue to sample every three months until the flavor is mature and satisfactory. If at anytime the miso tastes or smells overly acidic, sour, or alcoholic, it should be discarded.

Miso can be fermented in under 6 months by storing in a carefully controlled environment between 21C/70F and 32C/90F, a process that is too detailed to cover here. For further information and inspiration on how to make and use miso, refer to the comprehensive "The Book of Miso", by William Shurtleff and Akiko Aoyagi.

citrus gama

My first inclination upon opening the box of citrus was to sit down and have myself a citrus feast, but that would have been purely indulgent and more than a little irresponsible. After all, it's not everyday that I have access to such rare and exotic jewels with at least one, the malaysian lime, of ambiguous origin. Gene Lester tells me that he planted it many years ago from seeds brought back from Malaysia and speculates that it may be an Egyptian lime.

I felt it was important to document their characteristics, if only for my own reference, as that has already been done to a greater extent over at Citrus Pages. Many of the photos and much of the information on the website is based on the fruit that Mr. Lester grows. After photographing, collecting data, and preliminary tastings, I was ready to get cooking.

New products, especially those of exceptional quality, always incite my creative monkeys. But with so many avenues and so little fruit, I had to reign them in and focus on a preparation that would capture the essence of the individual cultivars— not just the flavor of the juice, but also the rich aroma of the rinds.

Ever since stumbling on yuzu gama, I've been fascinated with the concept. I'll admit that using citrus as a kettle is a romantic notion. But it's also a practical one: the porous rind insulates, breathes, and permeates the contents with aroma.

The first thing I learned was that not all citrus make suitable cooking vessels. Those with bitter albedos— lemons, limes, grapefruit— impart unpleasant bitterness.

And yet those with thin, tender rinds— kumquats, clementines, mandarins— are surprisingly palatable and can be eaten along with the contents. Many of the fruits that I was given were petite— just the right size to snugly hold a scallop.

The Thomasville citrangequat (below left) is a cross between an orange and a kumquat. Like the kumquat, it has a sweet rind and tart pulp, though the fruit is larger (about 2" diameter), and the pulp is sweeter. After cutting off the top and bottom and removing the pulp, I steamed the rind for a few minutes to soften it. A scallop was stuffed into the citrus band and seared on both sides. The cintrangequat juice was reduced with saffron and blended with egg yolk and olive oil to form a mayonnaise that accompanies the scallop and steamed baby artichoke. The bright, fresh rind cut through the richness of the scallop and brought to mind the evanescence of spring.

The Silverhill mandarin (below right) is an Unshu satsuma with a rich, sweet flavor and aroma. It was hollowed out (an easy task as the pulp separates easily from the rind), stuffed with a scallop, seasoned with salt, szechuan pepper, a dab of butter and a sprinkle of its juice, then sous vide at 50ºC for 40 minutes. The scent escaping from the opened bag was incredible. It was glazed with a sauce made from the juices in the bag, reduced with the rest of the mandarin juice and mounted with sweet butter. Served with crumbled, dehydrated Cerignola olives and pureed black garlic, it made a sweet and resonant autumnal starter; rind and all.

Over the winter, my quasi-obsession with citrus has been interlaced with an increasing interest in old-school terrines, though up until now nothing has materialized.
For this terrine, I chose the Temple tangor, a cross between a tangerine and orange, because it was the largest specimen with a sweet rind. The hollowed out tangor was filled with a cylinder of foie, surrounded by black truffles folded into prepared sweetbreads (soaked, blanched, cleaned, pressed, seasoned), and bound with transglutaminase. The terrine was cooked sous vide at 65ºC for 90 minutes, pressed overnight, and sliced. Again, the mingled scents of foie, truffles and orange was not to be believed.
Other components are: pickled beet with tangor sections, brioche crouton, and a leaf of liquid salad made from watercress fluid gel, finished with olive oil and lemon juice.

Note: Although the rind of the tangor was sweet, it was a bit leathery. I had hoped that it would have softened more than it did in the sous vide process. If I were to repeat this dish— which I intend to (perhaps with a pate de campagne), I would precook the rind. Alternately, the rind could be used as a scented mold.

*Admittedly, foie, truffles and sweetbreads were rather decadent ingredients to experiment with, but these were left over from a job.

I don't recall the last time that I made a proper cassoulet, but I remember the first. It was after reading Paula Wolfert's "The Cooking of Southwest France" sometime in the mid 80's and feeling an overwhelming need to be connected to that place and its food. It was my introduction to duck confit, pork braised in milk, and the wantonly rich cassoulet. For years, I looked forward to the winter ritual that began with making lamb stock on a Friday night and culminated with a liberal topping of bread crumbs and duck fat on a Sunday afternoon. The crust was always the deal-breaker.
This cassoulet-inspired dish features Gigante beans cooked in duck stock, duck confit, and Cara Cara orange* segments, layered and baked together in the orange rind. The crust is a variation on chicken skin croquant, substituting duck skin, and dusted with orange zest and parsley.

*Cara Cara is a navel orange, a mutation that naturally occurred on a Washington navel orange tree, with sweet pink pulp. It was not in the box of citrus that chef Kinch sent me but I needed a fruit large enough to hold an entree-sized serving. Unlike the other dishes, this rind is used for aroma and presentation, not to be eaten.

Indian Summer :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean

The sweet corn that we enjoy today is far removed from its ancestor. It is thought to have originated from teosinte, an ancient wild grass native to Mexico. Centuries of cultivation and hybridization has transformed it into the more palatable and versatile species that we continue to grow today. This was not a natural occurrence— it took careful selection and sophisticated horticultural skill to achieve. How primitive cultures had the knowledge to accomplish this continues to perplex scientists and researchers.

The domestication of corn is thought to have started 7,500 to 12,000 years ago in the Balsas river valley in lower Mexico. During the 1st millennium, cultivation of maize spread into the Southwestern United States. It took another thousand years for it to reach the Northeast and Canada, where Woodland Indians cleared forests and grasslands, creating large fields to plant the new crop.

Native Americans did not practice monocropping as we do today— cornfields belong to modern agriculture. Instead, they employed a more sustainable system of interplanting three crops: corn, beans, and squash— a triad that is deeply rooted in Native American mythology, known as "The Three Sisters".

To the Native Americans, The Three Sisters were sacred goddesses that could not bear to be separated. Among the tribes, there were varying versions of the legend that revolved around a creation myth. According to one legend, Sky Woman, who lived in the Upper World, fell through a hole in the sky towards an endless sea. Animals scurried to dig mud from the bottom of the sea and spread it on the back of a giant turtle to cushion her fall. Sky Woman gave birth to Corn Mother, who bore three daughters that were inseparable until their death, when they were buried together on Turtle Island (North America). Out of their graves sprouted corn, beans, and squash— their gift to humanity.

Like most myths, The Three Sisters sounds far-fetched and fantastical, but in fact, their relationship is scientifically sound.

Throughout the Old World, corn, beans, and squash were sown together in small mounds of earth that were scattered through fields. The beans would wind around the corn as they grew, using the cornstalk as a support, while simultaneously supporting the tall, slender stalks from toppling over in the wind. The nitrogen-fixing nodules on the roots of the beans fed the nutrient-hungry corn and the squash vines that covered the ground at their feet. The squashes shallow roots and copious foliage shaded the ground, preventing weeds and preserving moisture. Together, they formed a perfect symbiosis.

This same symbiosis carried over from horticulture into nutrition— when eaten together, The Three Sisters form a perfect food. Corn provides protein and niacin, while beans and squash contribute the amino acids necessary for digestion. Native Americans also nixtamalized their corn to produce hominy by soaking it in alkaline water (made with wood ashes), thereby liberating the niacin and making it more nutritious. The importance of The Three Sisters and nixtamalization was supported when pellagra (a disease brought on by niacin deficiency) spread through non-indigenous cultures who adopted corn as a staple food without the ancient wisdom to accompany it. Again, the scientific community was left marveling at the primitive ingenuity.

Gourds are related to pumpkins and squash and were cultivated by Native Americans to use as dippers, spoons, cups, medicine holders, bottles, canteens, sacred honey containers, and ceremonial rattles. I grew these to use as birdhouses— dried, cut with a saw, and lightly sanded, they make interesting organic bowls.

The Three Sisters

corn beans pumpkin

popcorn sage broth

hominy chip

green beans fried shallots

Emerite beans

fried shallot cheese

potato broth

fried shallot emulsion

pickled shallot

marjoram blossoms

Green beans are one of the most satisfying plants to grow. They're not fussy about soil, sun, or location and they only require regular picking so that they can continue to do what they do best– produce.

For many years I've exclusively grown a french filet bean variety called "Emerite", a pole bean that must be grown vertically with support. This is a trait that I prefer over bush beans because they are easier to harvest (no stooping), they stay clean and don't rot from contact with wet soil (a big concern this year), they produce continuously until frost (bush beans have a short, concentrated harvest), and they require less real estate (a 10" wide x 10' long row produces an ample supply of beans for my family of four).

One of the advantages of growing green beans (or any plant) is access to their various stages of growth. When Emerite is in full production, I pick handfuls of the immature pods when they are only 1 to 2 inches long and briefly saute them in butter and a sprinkle of sea salt. These are a rare treat, resembling a mound of green angulas. Late in the season, I let the beans mature and dry on the vine. Within the shriveled, papery pods lies next years crop.

Mostly, I harvest Emerites when they are 4 to 6 inches long, At this stage, they are still slim, straight and tender, their delicate flavor fully developed. One favorite preparation is to saute thinly sliced shallot rings in olive oil until browned and crisp, then toss blanched beans in with the shallots and flavored oil.

Here, I've made fresh cheese infused with the flavor of fried shallots by heating a quart of milk to 135F and adding a half cup of well-drained and crumbled fried shallots, then covering and allowing the mixture to infuse for about 30 minutes. The shallots are then strained from the milk and the milk is reheated to 100F. A tablet of rennet is dissolved in a teaspoon of water and added to the milk. Once the rennet is added, it should be stirred in gently and briefly as any agitation at this point will disrupt coagulation. Cover the pan and allow to sit undisturbed for 30 minutes. Once the curds form, they are scooped into a ring mold lined with blanched Emerites, which act as a case for the cheese. As the curds compress and the whey drains away, the level of the cheese will sink and more curds can be added until they reach the desired level. The cheese will be firm enough to unmold and hold its shape after about 4 hours.

minestra primavera

One of my clients recently returned from an extensive trip through Italy. She called this morning to discuss tonights dinner party and the foods that she sampled in her travels, particularly the minestre. When she began listing things like minestrone, zuppa di pesce, ribollita, risotto, spaghetti al pomodoro, and even lasagna, I became confused. In my ignorance, I believed that minestre were simply soups. It was sobering to learn that minestre refers to any food that is cooked in broth or a base sauce and is always served at the beginning of a meal. A liquid minestra (in brodo) is served as a first course, while a dry minestra (cooked in sauce) is served as a second course. This classification blurred the lines of what I formerly thought of as soup.

She was especially excited to tell me about a minestra di verdura that she was served in Emilia-Romagna that consisted of barely-cooked vegetables and legumes in a proscuitto and parmesan broth. Of course, this meant that the menu for the dinner party needed to be altered, which creates a domino effect. And although I have already shopped and prepped for the long-established menu, I'm up for the challenge and aim to please. I'm just gonna roll with this one.

prosciutto consomme, parmesan sponge, parmesan biscotti, young spring vegetables (new potatoes, zucchini, pattypan squash, cavolo nero, garlic shoots), legumes (haricots, green ceci, borlotto, cannellini), herbs (dandelion, basil, marjoram, chervil)

Download recipe: Parmesan sponge

fractal

I was 8 years old when I walked into a department store dressing room and watched in amazement as my reflection bounced back and forth recursively between two parallel mirrors. It was my first glimpse of infinity and though I didn't know it then, I was looking at a fractal.

In 1958, Benoit Mandelbrot, a brilliant young mathematician joined the research staff at IBM. As one of the first mathematicians to have access to high-speed computers, Mandelbrot conceived and developed a radical new geometry that was capable of mathematically describing the real world of Nature. In 1982, he published his ideas in "The Fractal Geometry of Nature" and rocked the world.

Before fractals (which also became known as Chaos Theory), Euclidian geometry was concerned with the abstract perfection that was nearly non-

existent in Nature. It could only describe the imaginary world made up of zero (a single point), the first dimension (a single line that contains an infinite number of points), the second dimension (a plane that contains an infinite number of lines), and the third dimension (a solid that contains an infinite number of planes). None of these could describe the amorphous and irregular shape of a cloud, mountain, coastline or tree. Mandelbrot's fractals were capable of describing the real world of the fourth dimension (a hypercube that contains an infinite number of solids and their relationship to each other in a time-space continuum). The fourth dimension is the world in which we live.

The mathematics of fractals are relatively simple, considering that they describe the indiscernibly complex. Fractals are geometric figures that repeat themselves under different levels of magnification. They are self-similar and recursive. An example would be the irregular and jagged shape of a mountain when viewed from a distance. When a section is magnified, the same shape or pattern is repeated with greater complexity. The pattern repeats itself with increasing detail as it goes on to be magnified to a microscopic scale. Fractals reveal the hidden worlds within a world.

Fractals are found everywhere in nature: mountains, trees, ferns, snowflakes, seashells, bolts of lightning, and the clusters of galaxies. The very planet that we live on is one huge fractal. The human body contains many fractals from the network of veins and capillaries to the folds in our brains, the beat of our hearts, and even our DNA, which is 99.98% similar. Mandelbrot's theory of space-time continuum of Man and Nature in which there is constant change based on feedback is an open system in which everything is related to everything else. Some scientists believe that fractals are the very fabric of the universe. It should come as no surprise that this connectivity has spread beyond the world of math and science and into art, music, literature, architecture, economics, meteorology, trend-forecasting, and even consciousness.

But what about food and cooking?

Certainly, food, be it plant or animal, contain fractal patterns. A perfect example is the beautiful and alien-looking Romanesco cauliflower, whose spires swirl repeatedly in various scales over the pale green heads. An example of a fractal–in a prepared food–would be a turducken (a chicken stuffed in a duck, stuffed in a turkey). And isn't a salad just a vegetable recursion?

As for cooking, could the act of whipping, which is a repetitive motion that changes the volume and texture of a substance with a self-similar expansive network of air bubbles, be fractal? If so, then couldn't the same be true of a reduction? And what about the turns required to make puff pastry? Or the gluten matrix produced in bread by carbon dioxide and ethyl alcohol?

And what about flavor…can flavor be fractal?

Would fractal flavor involve repeating a flavor in varying proportions/scales, such as a sandwich where each bite contains the same flavors and textures in slightly different proportions? Or a glass of wine that is a liquid composition of complex flavors and with each sip, we can discern, or magnify, a different element of its flavor? Would a dish composed of self-similar aroma compounds be a flavor fractal? Or one composed of the same flavor in varying textures?

My preoccupation with these questions can, in and of itself, be considered fractal as I zoom in for clarity and answers, I only find more detail and questions. Ultimately, I believe it is a search for connectivity… to myself, to others, to the physical world as well as the spiritual, and, of course, to food.

Soy fractal

fresh soybeans: edamame cone

dried soybeans: soy milk foam (using inherent lecithin in soy)

tofu sphere (with malt)

yuba cylinder (with peanut, miso, and okara)

fried yuba

fermented soy: sweet shoyu sauce

douchi soil

natto

self-similar aromas: soy, peanut, malt (alcohols: sulfurol

guaiacol

aldehydes: valeraldehyde

butyraldehyde

fatty acids: butyric acid

isovaleric acid)

soy milk, yuba, and curd

As far as natto is concerned, the world seems to be divided into two camps: Hate & Repulsion, or Natto Love. I am an expat of the former, trying to find a home in the later.

Once I got around to trying the mythical natto, it almost felt anti-climatic. The sweaty-feet smell was not as offensive as some of my favorite cheeses. It was the otherworldliness of the neba neba slime that took me aback. That just felt sooo wrong to consume. But once I got past that, I found the flavor to be mildly beany and nutty with a pleasantly bitter finish that reminded me of roasted coffee.

The main reason that I want to love natto is for its nutritional value, as confirmed by a reader:

"…since then I have made a good contact with a scientist who has managed to use natto for a better purpose, he found it contains a fantastic element called K2, if you have 0.35micrograms of K2 in your diet it reduces your risk of heart disease by a massive 52%!!!! Thats why the japanese have less heart disease in the country than any other, well until the west introduced McDonalds!"

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Soy milk also divides the masses, but leaves the majority of us ambivalent and about as neutral as its flavor. Soy milk is a stable emulsion of oil, water, and protein. It contains 3.5% protein–about the same as cow's milk, but with far less saturated fat and 0 cholesterol.

Soybeans also have the distinction of being a plant source whose protein content can mimic dairy in its ability to coagulate and curdle.

rehydrated soybeans dried soybeans

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soy milk rehydrated soybeans and water

Recipe: Soy milk

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yuba Yuba is the coagulated protein skin that forms on the surface of heated soy milk. It can be used as a wrapper for sweet or savory fillings or crisped in hot oil

yuba miso roll miso, peanut butter, and okara enclosed in yuba with sweet shoyu dipping sauce

Recipe: Yuba miso roll

yuba crisp dehydrated yuba, fried in hot oil

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bean curd (tofu) soy milk curdled with lime juice and pressed

Recipe: Bean curd

Nutrition and versatility are certainly worthy enough reasons to explore the humble soybean, but there is another logic to all this soyfulness….

natto !

soybeans

The first time that I tried edamame was nearly a decade ago at a Japanese restaurant. My friend, who had been there before urged me to order them, but I declined. I mean… a bowl of beans cooked in salted water? Really? How was I supposed to get excited about that?

Of course, I tried them and of course, I loved them. There was something so fundamentally satisfying about sharing a communal bowl of humble beans, digging them out of their shells with our fingers. and popping them in our mouths. But it was not just about the ritual, it was also about flavor– delicate, buttery, nutty, addictive.

I searched for edamame in markets and health food stores but they just weren't available back then. At least not in my area. So I grew them. And have been growing them since.

Soybeans are an amazingly versatile food. From them, we can produce oil, butter, milk, yogurt, cereal, flour, cheese and meat analogs. And that's not even mentioning the umami-rich fermented products: soy sauce, miso, tempeh, funky natto, and fermented black beans, or douchi.

Douchi are made by fermenting and salting whole black soybeans. The process results in dry, soft, salty beans with a complex aroma profile similar to chocolate and coffee [which, if you think about it, are fermented beans]. The difference being that while douchi are salted, chocolate and coffee go on to be roasted.

When soybeans are in season in my garden, I treat them like corn. Before heading out to the garden, I put on a pot of salted water. By the time that I return, the water is at a rolling boil. The beans cook in their pods for 8 minutes, no more. These I like to eat scalding hot, burning my fingers on the shells, with a small bowl of salt or ground douchi [which, if you think about it, can act like salt]. But I always save some to chill down and nibble on later with a cold beer, much like peanuts [which, if you think about it, is also a legume].

Funny how things are connected.